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hausted tea-leaves, made up with gum, &c., and other matters. In this
country, Dr. Hassall says, there is really no such thing as a green tea—
that is, a tea which possesses a natural
green hue.

Milk, it is needless to say, is almost universally adulterated with water. Such an adulteration is, at all events, not like that of tea, calculated to affect health injuriously, but the immorality of the practice is exceeding. Vinegars are uniformly adulterated with sulphuric acid, and sometimes with water, sour beer, and cyder. Pickles are almost as uniformly adulterated with that poisonous metal copper, and this is more particularly the case when they consist entirely of green vegetables, as gherkins and beans. This is also the case in preserved fruits and vegetables. Cayenne pepper and curry-powder are made especial objects of poisonous adulteration: Cayenne with red lead, cinnabar, Venetian red, and other substances; curry-powder with red lead, and rice, and salt. What are called anchovies are in seven cases out of twenty-eight Dutch fish. Potted bloaters are almost uniformly coloured by means of red earth, as is also anchovy paste. Sauces are adulterated with treacle, salt, Armenian bole, and charred wood. Preserves and jams very generally contain copper. Lard is frequently extensively adulterated with water and potato flour, as well as with certain saline substances. The most hurtful adulterations are in the case of coloured-sugar confectionery, and after them in wine, beer, and spirits.

One of the most common substances used in the adulteration of beer, especially porter, is the cocculus indicus, of which a pound is said to be equal to a sack (four bushels) of malt, in giving fulness, richness, and darkness of colour. 2359 cwt. imported in a year must thus save to the brewers the enormous quantity of 1,056,000 bushels of malt. Cocculus indicus is poisonous to all animals, and a well-known use of it is for stupifying of fish. Mr. Johnston says that it is probable that the peculiarly disgusting forms of intoxication sometimes seen among the lower classes is to be ascribed to the cocculus indicus.

About 40,000 lbs. of grains of paradise are at present annually imported into England for the purpose of imparting a fictitious appearance of strength to malt and spirituous liquors. They are used principally along with capsicum and juniper berries, to give a strong, hot flavour to London gin; and, along with cocculus indicus and other bitters, to give a relish and warmth to beer.

It is not the retail dealer who adulterates so much as the manufacturers, and the roasters and grinders of articles of consumption. Nevertheless, the latter does his part in the way of adulteration, although to a much less extent. Such a state of things is a disgrace to the boasted civilisation of the country. It is grievous to think how many persons have died, and still continue to die, from the neglect of proper sanitary precautions, and from living in violation of the fundamental laws and rules of health; but it is abominable to know that a great part of these are slowly killed and destroyed by the infamous adulteration of their food and drink. Now that the magnitude of the mischief has been demonstrated, and the methods by which the several adulterations practised may be discovered with ease and certainty have been pointed out, we may, it is to be hoped, expect that but a very short period will be permitted to elapse before the subject shall be duly considered and discussed with a view to some effective legislation.

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HÉGÉSIPPE MOREAU was one of the many sons of genius whom that gaunt, ruthless, desolating tyrant-Poverty-has first cradled and then crushed. Had his innate poetical talents been appreciated and fostered, he might have become one of the literary stars of his native France; but in the struggle against misery and destitution his energies were overwhelmed, his spirit broken, and he who had dreamed of fame, died the death of a pauper-outcast in an hospital supported by charity. unfortunate poet, who was born in 1810, and had been an orphan from his infancy, after having finished his education at a seminary at Fontainebleau, came to Paris, flushed with all the romantic hopes, the vain aspirations of youth and enthusiasm, depending upon the exercise of his mental gifts, not only for success, but for daily bread. "He imagined," says his admirer, Felix Pyat, "that he had but to sing to live; and that the lyre which in ancient times had the power of making stones move of themselves, and of taming wild beasts, would have some effect upon the feelings of men. Vain hope! The poet's song is lost amidst the uproar of cities as that of the bird is lost amidst the storms of heaven."

The busy crowds hearkened not to his lays; the heir-presumptive of Béranger the poet of the people-found neither sympathy nor encouragement; misery alone haunted his steps; and he had not the means, like De Lamartine and Victor Hugo, to wait for that renown which was to make their poems profitable to them. In order to obtain a scanty living, he was obliged to give lessons to young children, and waste his talents in writing stories to please his little pupils, and their superannuated grandmothers. This life became intolerable to him, and he sought for employment as a journeyman printer. It was while undergoing extreme privations that he composed that much-admired work entitled "Myosotis." But want and disappointment are too often the harbingers of disease, and poor Moreau was at length compelled to seek refuge within the walls of a public hospital.


Felix Pyat, who had endeavoured to befriend the starving poet, went, accompanied by one or two other literary men, to inquire after him at the hospital. "It was on the 20th of December, 1838," he "that we went to the hospital, and having crossed its grass-grown courts, gloomy as a churchyard, and its low corridors, vaulted like tombs-we found, in the hall of the amphitheatre, a body lying on a stone table. Whose corpse was this? It was Number Twelve. So many men die there that they do not designate them by their names, they merely number them. And who was Number Twelve? A poor poet, the poet Hégésippe

Moreau !"

He had perished in the flower of life, a victim of neglect and poverty! Is this a solitary instance of the extinction of genius under the rough pressure of iron-handed adversity?—Alas! no.-The gay, the busy, the self-interested of the world may know nothing of the fate of many to

whom Nature had been lavish of her gifts; but the magic circle of bright intelligence would be less limited than it is, if distress, obscurity, and the grave, did not too often bury the children of genius ere their light had dazzled society, and secured a needful pittance for themselves.

Among the papers which were found at the hospital after the death of poor "Number Twelve," or Hégésippe Moreau, belonging to him, was a little poem, of which the following is a close translation:


In meditation plunged, an ode my theme,
Musing I sat-when hark! As from the ground
There came, to chase away my waking dream,
An infant's cry-a feeble wailing sound.

Within the porter's humble lodge, a boy

Is born unto the world, and beauteous he

Even as a royal child. What chimes of joy

Are pealing!-Sleep, poor babe-they do not ring for thee!

At thy baptismal hour, no pomp presides-
A slight repast, some neighbours, and one priest
To celebrate the rite-there's nought besides
Needed to make thee heir of heaven at least.
At yonder font, amidst a gorgeous scene,
With blessings loud, some prelate bows the knee;
Yet with anathemas murmured between-

Sleep on in peace, poor babe-they are not meant for thee.

No statesmen's ermined robes around thy couch

Have fluttered, while their wearers hailed thy voice
In tones that seemed their fealty to vouch,

And spoke of joy-as sycophants rejoice.

The world's first noise to reach thy tender ear
Hath not been words of faithless treachery;

If to a cradle dark deceit be near

Sleep infant-sleep in peace-it hovers not o'er thee!

Sleep, offspring of the poor! There is an hour
Which passes slowly o'er a guilty head,


When conscience sways with her remorseful
And slumber flies the rich man's downy bed.
When solemn midnight tolls from yonder dome,

"Tis said they at the Louvre phantoms see

That make them shudder at that hour of gloom-
But thou mayst sleep, poor babe-God watches over thee.
Thy tender years within a poorhouse-walls
To pass-then hurried to far battle-fields-
Such is thy fate; and oft when hunger calls,
To start up from the straw no rest that yields-
To groan-to suffer-'tis the common law;
But of the people's mighty mass thou'lt be:

Though threat'ning storms keep crowned heads in awe,
Sleep thou in peace, poor babe-they will not injure thee!





IT wanted but three days to the wedding of Adeline de Castella with the Baron de la Chasse, when she stole at the dusk of evening to her father's shrubbery, to meet Mr. St. John. He had been very little to the château since Signor de Castella's final and positive rejection of him, but had met Adeline elsewhere. He was waiting for her now, as she came up, and, after greeting her, drew forth a letter from his pocket.

"It is from my mother, Adeline," he said; and she broke the seal, and they both read it together.

But we must first of all allude to a portion of the history, upon which it is not so pleasant to touch. Mr. St. John, after many further efforts, quite ineffectual, to shake the resolution of M. de Castella, had urged Adeline, as a last resource, to fly with him from her father's home and from the hated marriage. At the first broaching of the subject she was inexpressibly shocked, and refused to listen. But he brought forth arguments of the most persuasive eloquence-and reasoning eloquence is convincing when it comes from beloved lips. It is useless to follow the matter, or to describe the days, step by step: it is sufficient to say that Mr. St. John spared no exertion to gain his point. He truly thought, in all honour, that he was acting for Adeline's happiness and welfare, and at length he wrung from her a most reluctant consent. Which consent, it is probable, he never would have obtained, but that he pressed his mother into the service. Now let us read Mrs. St. John's Îetter: it will be seen that it was not the first Adeline had received from her:

"MY DEAR MADEMOISELLE DE CASTELLA,-Frederick tells me that you demurred to the arguments of my previous letter, as being only used out of courtesy to you. You judge perfectly right in believing I look upon elopements in general with a severe eye: every gentlewoman, mother, and respecter of social order, does: but your case appears to be a most peculiar one. Your whole future happiness, perhaps life, is at stake, and it seems to me to be a positive duty to save you from the obnoxious marriage which threatens you. But were it not that M. de Castella has assured us (in his letter to my stepson, Mr. Isaac St. John) that he has no personal objection to Frederick-that were it not for this unlucky previous contract he should be proud of the alliance, I should never have lent myself to his obtaining you clandestinely. Another thought has also had weight with me: that if the step must be taken (and I really see no other way of escape for you) it will be better that it be done with my sanction than without it. I trust, when time shall have soothed M. de Castella's anger, he will thank me, and acknowledge that I acted for the best.

"I am not sufficiently recovered to travel to Folkestone, as Frederick

wished, but Lady Anne Saville has offered to supply my place. She leaves with her husband for Folkestone the day after to-morrow, and will receive you there from Frederick's hands. She will conduct you at once to London, to my house, where you will remain my guest until the marriage, which of course must take place at once; after which, you will leave for Castle-Wafer, and pass there a brief sojourn before you start for the South. The settlements are here, waiting for your signature and Frederick's: Mr. Isaac St. John has already affixed his.

"I am impatient to receive and welcome you, and believe me, my dear child, I will always endeavour to be to you as an affectionate mother. "SELINA ST. JOHN."

"And now, Adeline, my dearest," he said, "you will be in readiness to-morrow night."

"When are we to be married?" she whispered. She might well bend her sweet face downwards as she asked it.

"Adeline, you see what my mother says. I have written to procure a special license, and the Protestant ceremony shall be performed on our arrival, so that we may at least be secured from separation. Should the forms of your own religion require any delay, which I do not anticipate, you will remain with my mother until they can be completed. My home in town is at Mivart's."


"You-you will be kind to me?" she faltered, bursting into tears. "I am leaving a happy home, my mother, my father, the friends of my childhood, I am leaving all for you; you will always be kind to me?" Adeline," he interrupted, as he clasped her tenderly to him, "how can you put the question? I am about to make you my dear wife; I will cherish you as you never yet were cherished. Your parents have loved you dearly, but not with such a love as mine. I will make your life one dream of happiness. No mother ever watched over her first-born, as I will watch over and cherish you."

Save for the wild beating of her heart, as it lay against his, he might have thought her cold, so still did she remain. It was the impassioned stillness of all-perfect love, too deep, too pure for utterance.

"You are leaving this home for one more beautiful," he continued; "you will forgive me for saying so when you see Castle-Wafer; a home where you will reign its idol. I speak not now of myself. Its retainers are tried and faithful: they have been ours from generation to generation. They served my father, they have served my brother, they will serve me; and you, their mistress, will be revered and worshipped. It will be a happy home: and though we may sojourn occasionally in foreign lands, or go to mingle in the gaieties of the world, we shall return to it with a zest that in time will render us loth to quit it. There we will bring up our children, and train them to goodness; there we will learn to live, so that we may become worthy to inherit a better world; the mode of worship may be different, but the faith and end are the same-one hope, one heaven, one God. Oh, Adeline, put away all fear for the future, all doubt of me, if indeed you could have such! I would bid another trust to my honour, I conjure you to confide in my love."

Just at the conclusion of the interview, a sudden cough near them was heard. St. John stepped aside a few paces, and there, on a bench, was

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